I was just getting done introducing Ciraya to Rathal – the poor man was going out of his way to avoid Wrynka, it seemed, and regularly cast furtive glances over his shoulder while we talked, complaining about rhimbelkina under his breath more than once – when a very unlooked-for trio appeared.
“It’s Bladesedge!” a man yelled.
“And Bookwyrm!” a woman cried.
I flew towards the commotion, and found the three of them standing there in the midst of the crowd. The two arch-diviners were at either side of an unknown woman in a brown tunic and black leggings, holding her arms protectively, even lovingly. The audience-members were looking at them with wonder and joy; but most of those clad in mage-robes were staring at the woman in the centre with looks of alarm plastered across their faces. They had some inkling of just who this person was, though she’d never been seen before.
She looked nothing like her illusory self. She was perhaps fifty, dark hair shot through with grey, heavy-chested and round at the waist. She appeared somewhat dishevelled: there was faded paint on her lips, massive bags under her hazel eyes, and her hair was pulled back in a three-day-old ponytail. Although she hadn’t donned magic-user clothing, she’d perhaps made a gesture by fastening a short, shiny silk cape about her neck. If it weren’t for her reputation preceding her, I’d have thought the combination of civilian clothing with the fancy cape to be more comical than the most-garish mage-robe I’d seen all day. However, as it was, I only felt cold inside.
She could’ve been wearing Sunspring’s giant strawberry for a costume – it didn’t matter. It was still her, still the most dangerous arch-enchanter to have ever strode our streets.
I saw Orcan floating there staring at her, one of the few archmages here with no notion of her identity.
“Dreamlaughter,” the whisper went through the assembled magicians.
Then the Telese wizard floated away, the same alarm gripping everyone else now entering his eyes.
“Hullo, everyone,” she said. Her voice was a South Lowtown warble. “Massively ‘preciate the welcome, like. Don’t need to go makin’ a big deal over li’l old me. I’ll just… stand over here…”
“We’ll need to thoroughly debrief you,” Tanra said. She was standing next to Brokenskull at the front, not ten feet from the witch, her face scrunched up in thought. “You are aware you’re still wrapped in an illusion, right?”
“What’s that s’pposed to mean?” the enchantress retorted.
I focussed my Blofm-eye. There was indeed something else, inside her body. The layers of glamour were impenetrable to my sight, however: the figure at the centre was a blur in spite of the goblin-essence.
“You’re an elf, remember?” Tanra’s voice was gentle. “I can see you – you’re really here. But you’re not you. Remember?”
“I – I don’t…”
The two grey-clad seers at Dream’s sides seemed to bristle as their owner floundered, both of them simultaneously standing up tall and gripping her arms more-tightly. Their austere faces folded into frowns.
Bookwyrm’s eyes went skyward, as if questioning his very existence, but the glare of Bladesedge only darkened.
Just as I felt as though some awful hostility might break out, bodies falling faster than the eye could follow –
Tanra held up her hand, palm outward.
“Oathbreaker will help you. Won’t you, Oathbreaker?”
I cast about, confused. Other than Ironvine and Spiritwhisper, Oathbreaker was the one person still in my ‘straggler’ list; no one had seen her all day, from what I’d heard.
Now the former arch-magister revealed herself, removing the invisibility-spell that had hidden her, concealing her completely from my goblin-sight. The crowd stepped back, murmuring.
She was standing not five yards from Dream. The old woman was clad in a plain lavender mage-robe, sleeveless, exposing surprisingly-toned arms. She had several bracelets on her wrists but only a few rings glittered on her knuckles – had they stripped her of her jewellery when they stripped her of her rank? I had no notion but, given her expression, it was definitely amongst the possibilities. She’d foregone the mask, and it looked like she hadn’t pulled a brush through her hair, letting it hang loose in her face. The grey locks couldn’t hide the tautness of her demeanour, the nervousness flashing in her eyes.
“Afternoon.” She grated the word out as though it pained her.
“Thanks for showing up. Thank you.” I nodded to her. I got it. She didn’t want her presence here to be a big deal, despite who she was, what she represented not just to the crowd but to the ex-magisters amongst the volunteers. She wanted to hide in the background, keep her invisibility up, even when she could be seen. “Do you think you can give Dream a hand? Without inviting the wrath of her… ah… bodyguards?”
Keliko looked at the trio. The trio looked back at her, their expressions unreadable.
“Perhaps.”
I smiled. She was used to getting what she wanted.
I guessed her punishment would start right here.
* * *
The sun passed its zenith but the heat only built and built until it was like an oppressive weight, bearing down on my back. I could only imagine the kind of suffering the others were going through – most people had more meat on their bones than I did, and their meat was way more material than mine. More than one wizard must’ve been involved in the cold wind that came whistling down through the golden branches. It was hard to tell who, however. I was engaged in an hour-long debate with Orcan, Mountainslide and a dozen other archmages of their breed, and not once did I see one of them gesturing to the sky. All the same, the beloved breeze came down.
At Nightfell and Doomspeaker’s direction, Dancefire sculpted an illusion of the floor-plan, slowly elaborating upon the glamour until we had a working image of the tower we would create. The seeresses went strutting around it, pointing, assigning numbers and letters to different sections of the building; Dancefire dutifully scribed their notes in glowing white characters, hanging them from the mirage. There was no implication of the actual end look – these were just lines and figures, with the outer cladding still to be decided. But I admired the appearance all the same, standing aside, just listening and watching.
It looked like a flat, upward-held hand, without looking too much like a hand. The broad-fronted main building was its palm. The four actual towers atop it would be ascending in height towards the centre akin to fingers, with the shorter dormitory spire sliding up the side like a thumb. However we painted it, it was going to look good. Not pretty, but good.
“Can we fireproof this bit from 3-G to 3-P by three in the afternoon?”
“Safelia will be back with the lumber.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“No… no. She’s needed here, on the section sixteen shell.”
“Orcan’s free. He’s done on the C-tower flooring by two-thirty, two-thirty-five…”
A voice from behind me hailed me strangely.
“Feychilde Ikastyron!”
I turned to regard a tall, wizened old man in a grey-and-blue robe. In his hand he grasped a staff but he didn’t lean upon it, keeping its butt out of the grass by hefting it up and resting the top against his shoulder. His hood was cast back to reveal a grizzled, ruddy-cheeked face of lines and bristles. His long hair and beard were matted with grime, tangled and wild, such that it was hard to discern one from the other. A heavy traveller’s cloak hung from his shoulders, but it didn’t look like he was perspiring.
Dark eyes regarded me sharply from beneath bristling eyebrows.
“Good sir?” I tried to query him politely, but I could hear the shrill surprise in my own voice.
“Lo!” He called the word out theatrically, and slowly waved the staff in his hand like a priest bestowing a benediction. Only then did I recognise the wing-sigil atop the rod. “You are he! The Fracture! The One-Winged Kestrel! He for whom I have sought these long weeks.”
“I…” I looked around me, but the faces of the other archmages held no immediate answers. “I haven’t heard those before. The whole kestrel business sounds cool, but the Fracture? Sweet Five, you must want to be my new best friend if you’re leading with that…”
He swung the staff down, levelling the sigil at me, and the cold wind blew again urgently, more forcefully than before. I found myself straightening – not quite alarmed, but suddenly aware that this was more than just some joke.
“I am bade by my Lord Orovon, Prince of Birds, Storm’s Sovereign, to be his tongue here in the city of Mund. And my first task is to speak to you, demon-render, he who broke the devil tempest. To you and yours, these Children of Mund in whose hands the future will rest.” His dark glower went to my left and right, encapsulating the hundreds of magic-users in whose company I stood. “I bear the words of the open sky! You shall hear it first from my lips, though in time you shall hear the message reflected, resounding from a million throats.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“The unclouded eye sees only light, Feychilde Ikastyron. I am fated to bear those eyes abrim with cloud and I tell thee, I see thee clear! The Gate upon Night teeters. Thou stridest the Edge of Apostasy under the Shadow’s swell and yet thou durst stride! It falls unto my personage to render thee reward. Beneath such darkness as thou dost face, know thee thy path shall err, faltering where few of my brethren can follow with celestial eyes. When thou art thrown low, I shall succour thee.
“Men knew not what it was to stride, ere I cast them a headwind. I shall see thee set thine, or be much remiss.”
The wind died down, bit by bit.
“Well…” I didn’t quite know what to say. “Th-thanks for coming. Thank you, I mean, Lord Orovon…”
I looked up at the sky, facing into the faltering wind.
Thank you.
The wind roared, a final acknowledgement before dropping away once more.
“What about the Temple of the Messenger?” a young man said with a sidelong glance at his fellows. And the same sentiment was being expressed all around me, a ripple of scoffs and snide remarks.
“Trickster.”
“Probably a charlatan. Dark priest if ever I saw one.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The Unsent One will have to hear about this!”
When I caught that particular comment, the intimidating holy man clearly caught it too, and he spun about, levelling his staff at the speaker.
The wind rose once more with his voice.
“The Unsent will receive his marching orders in due course, and be sent far from this place into exile! Do you not understand yet? The Time of the T-“
My hand suddenly itched; it felt like an insect bite, swift and sharp. That shouldn’t have been possible through the ghost-form. I glanced down, my attention focused on the burning spot on the ball of my thumb – then, seeing nothing of note, I centred my attention once more upon the priest.
“– and the Time of Redress descends now upon our heads. All the Divine Seats shall reclaim their meanings, lost so long to the darkness in men’s souls. I am the Unsent One now! I am here to speak and be heard as no bearer of that title has ever spoken, has ever been heard! Ye of spoiled, wasted faith, know this and shudder! Our propensity for impact is limited, entwined with the designs of our foes. Now we will act, as they have feared so long. Now we are acting! Do you not know that the planes are mirrors, reflecting up and down between the worlds? Mirrors waiting to be broken! Your souls alone hang in the balance, collected and stored against Nightfall. You too will be Unsent! You shall be the Messenger, your singing blade the message. Ye all shall stand with me before the Door against the tide! Do you not know that we are preparing for War?”
Stunned silence fell over the crowd like a spell, stymying even the enchanters, working through any and every shield. His words pierced flesh, entering the lightless waters within, the deepest areas of the mind, stirring the hidden currents, producing formless sensations, void-feelings that could only be perceived by their strength, their vast, incoherent Truth.
Of all the things I expected to happen next, Durgil stepping out of the crowd wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list – yet it was obviously just going to be one of those days.
The fierce-eyed dwarf bounded out into the clearing, unaffected by the holy lethargy that had settled on everyone else. There was a disturbing energy to his movements as he strode forth, an eagerness on his bearded face that was so keen as to almost dismay me. In the bright light of the sun his blackened armour was visible in all its detail to my eye. The once-noble designs upon the pauldrons were twisted, withered to nails of rust. The rings of mail under the plate portions had frayed, bits of metal wire poking out like dark bristles.
The melted runes, names of Kultemeren, broken…
“Hear the Rain! Hear him! I am Durgil, slayer of Mal Malas, the old wyrm whose black crown fell to Feychilde. Hear me, a Knight of Kultemeren with lips unsealed! I come before you without purpose, without the commandment of any god. No purpose but my own, and this man’s words!”
The dwarf brandished his marred blade, pointing it at the old priest without looking, its tip motionless and steady.
For the first time, the new Unsent One smiled.
“The Church has lost its way! Too long have we been silent.” Durgil swung the black sword about, directing it at me. “How can we speak Truth when we cannot speak? How can we see the Truth, when we fear to gaze too long at the shadow lest it envelop us? The Whisper’s Predicate – is something to speak about! This man… this young man, this arch-sorcerer and saviour of Mund… him I will follow. He has looked into the darkness with unwavering gaze! He is the last scion of Kultemeren’s will, driving us forward, pulling from our eyes the blindfold of complacency! I go now…”
He looked right at me, and I stared back at him, seeing only the gravity on his face, and his determination.
“I go now to repudiate my patriarchs, those men of wealth and power who have squatted too long upon their thrones. I see it all now. I see what I must do, what I must become. I renounce my rank and titles, I renounce my past. I am not that man! I am Durgil, and I will be heard!”
He spun about and stomped off into the crowd; a great roar of acceptance went with him, and not an inconsiderable number of the onlookers too. They’d clearly decided they’d had their fill of archmages and were spoiling for front-row seats during a religious dispute. How exactly that was all going to pan out, given only one of the interested parties was willing to actually speak, I had no notion.
“He will not be the last, Fracture. Behold!”
Orovon’s herald gestured with the wing-tipped staff once more, and those standing in its path parted, displaying the tall, gaunt woman striding towards me.
“Mortiforn salutes you, Master of Mund! How now this sweet sacrifice, this altar of souls, under your ministration!”
Oh, gods, I groaned inwardly.
Oh gods indeed.
* * *
“So,” I said smugly to Kani when she stepped up to the front of the crowd, “you were a bit wrong there, weren’t you? I thought all the Churches were going to be united against me.”
The cleric’s round, freckled face was a mystery. Her smile didn’t falter. Her gaze was inscrutable. I found myself whether any of the onlookers might’ve had a clue as to the source of her unremitting confidence. Not in the cowed crowds, oh no, but the ranks of attendant priestesses milling behind her? The arch-enchanters, the other eminent holy figures?
Phanar, the imposing guard-dog at her side, the thoughts brewing behind his own stern gaze no less enigmatic than his bride’s…
None of them were saying anything, and I sensed the crowd’s unease, a mirror for my own.
“Or… not?” I offered, looking from Kani to Phanar and back again.
“The demon-woman is no longer with him.”
When the last son of N’Lem finally broke the silence, his deep voice was filled with the familiar calmness, certitude: yet he spoke of matters that ought to have been beyond his ken.
While I furrowed my brow in confusion, Kani nodded.
“And he has cast aside the crown?” she murmured, her eyes still on me.
“Two of seven shades. Its likeness tends upon him still.”
“Still…”
“Hold on a sec,” I cut in before she could get any more cryptic. “How does he –” I nodded at Phanar “– know all this stuff? How do you know I dismissed the eolastyr, man? Are you a diviner now? Or did one of the gods select you too?”
“I do not believe so,” he replied. “I am… who I am. I can now sense the presence of other worlds. I do not know the origin of this gift. It has been months in the refining.”
“Dragonslayer!” someone nearby cried, in apparent appreciation of the tall outlander.
I probably looked at Phanar a bit sceptically. “But what’re you… becoming?”
“What I am meant to be. What I make of myself.” He shrugged, his light armour clinking. “I do not think the gods have taken a hand in it, nor spells, such as I recognise them. I revere Joran and Kaile and Ismethyl. I respect the arts of the archmages. But I belong to neither. I am outside the chains of fate, now.”
“It doesn’t worry you?” I looked between them. “What about Ana? She didn’t mention –”
“What concerns us, O benevolent Feychilde,” Kani raised an empty, open hand, “is this talk of Redgate.”
“We knew something was wrong.” Phanar’s voice was as deep and slow as before, but there was a halting quality to it now. The veneer of calmness was slipping. “We heard the rumours. Our man, in Tirremuir –”
Nightfell appeared at my side, interrupting even as she moved into place. “Derezo was sent here to kill you, or be killed by you. Or both.” The seeress shrugged. “It was only by the determination of one of Redgate’s former slaves and another masterless eldritch that your ‘man’… your vampire Derezo failed to reach his targets.”
Phanar grimaced. Kani’s smile finally faded.
“Redgate… changed Derezo?” Phanar said after a solid ten-second silence.
“It’s only apparent to me now – well, since we interrogated Dirk and Osantya.” The arch-diviner wrinkled her nose. “I was just waiting for the right time to tell you. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend, but I’m glad he ran himself into a permanent solution before he got to you. You didn’t need to see that. Shallowlie and Feychilde possess your pair of saviours amongst their retinues, if you’d question them yourselves.”
“Saviours?” Kani spat. “These spirits – I would very much like to see them called forth, actually.”
I caught the dangerous twang to her voice, and I was about to refuse her – if she thought she was torturing Osi with her divine fire, or even Dirk for that matter, she had another thing coming –
“Osantya,” Phanar repeated after Nightfell. “My sister has told me of this person. The wight, yes? Osantya hated Redgate.”
“That night was full of his tricks.” Kani spoke softly but she turned her head and glared at her husband all the same. “I remember what Ana said and I don’t care. If this really is him, despite all the precautions we took… you know him. You know what he’s like. You can’t possibly believe his pet would, what, swim the ocean without some ulterior –”
I raised my own hand. “She clung to the hull of the ship that bore Derezo to Mund. She endured days and days of immersion in the open ocean, just to foil Redgate’s plans. Don’t think she isn’t true, just because she’s undead. She’s bonded again, now. Whatever you did to Redgate – it worked, at least temporarily. Looks like a sorcerer loses their eldritches when they die, even if they’ve got something here to bring them back. And I know a thing or two about feigned submission. Trust me – Osantya is true. She can’t lie to us.”
Kani’s glare had been turned back upon me rather than Phanar, but as I concluded the harshness in her eyes started to melt, as though her goddess herself spoke in my favour, directly into the hidden halls of her mind.
“Call me a fool, but I do.” She raised her voice suddenly. “I do! I trust you, Feychilde, and name you Hells’-foe, Kultemeren’s Clutch, the Inverse Weapon whose unscabbarding shall heal the world! Wythyldwyn recognises you, and, as I am her Exalted, I can do no less.”
She swept her hammer from its holster on her belt, holding it out and upwards as she bent to one knee.
Her fellow priestesses imitated her, extending their maces and bowing their heads low before me. Of their whole assemblage only Phanar remained standing, his amusement only reaching his eyes.
“Ah, I don’t want people bowing,” I said hurriedly, moving closer and waving my hand for them to rise, even gesturing stupidly with my stump. “Please, I’m not, not like that –”
“It matters not what you want,” Kani said, oddly formal, rising to her feet once more. “You don’t get it, still. What you’ve done. What you’ll be, to these people. To the world. To the future.” I could see on her face that she still seemed to be struggling with it herself, contending with some urge to denounce me or storm off. “You’ve thrown off the crown. That alone gives you the right to wear it. And it’s more than a right. It’s in you now.”
I bowed my head as the acolytes stood up again. “So I’m Mother-Chaos’s representative here, is that it?”
“Maybe.” I glanced at her, and saw as her face twisted. “No… no. I trust you, Feychilde. If it’s possible for a man to be chosen by both Truth and Lie – the lightest light; the darkest darkness… Maybe it’s what Mund needs. Someone who knows the chaos, to break the controls.”
It won’t need me forever, I thought.
“Someone who’s passed through their darkness.” She smiled again. “Do stars shine against a white sky?”
I looked deep into her eyes.
And you think I’ve passed through my darkness?
I shivered, and said nothing. In the end, the most my silence could cost me was my soul.
And that I feared, for all this holy woman’s words to the contrary, was already forfeit.